’ Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to flatter her into relaxation again. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. 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. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. ‘She hasn’t said so, but I presume Valade had got hold of all the useful papers,’ Gerald went on.
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