Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. "I know not—and care not," replied Jack. Just as he had succeeded in fixing his attention, it was again shaken, and he was almost unnerved by the sight of Mr. 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. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park.
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