Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. 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. His destination was the New Mint. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery.
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