He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all. I hadn’t heard of him before the trial. 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. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better.
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