He looked at her in some embarrassment. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. “Time for my Patience,” she said. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. The decision had been sound.
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