She fought him at first, screaming at him, but he did not relent. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. That’s probably true. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern.
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