ToC Jack Sheppard's first object was to free himself from his handcuffs. This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. 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. Hearing the distant shouts, these fellows rushed down to the entrance of the court, and arrived there just as Jack passed it. Gerald sighed. There was a pleasant numbness in the bottle; that's why I went to it. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom.
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