She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. 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. "A secret is too valuable a commodity to be thrown away.
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