"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. "Tom Sheppard never said a better thing than that— ho! ho!" "Jack," cried his mother, wringing her hands in distraction, "you'll break my heart!" "Poh! poh!" returned her son; "women don't so easily break their hearts. " "That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess," returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk. Gold-handled, too. "Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. 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. "Leave him to me," he said. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Well, I told aunt.
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