And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. It’s artificially chance. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. Thames did not try to cheer her. And it’s no use thinking he’d stop her. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice.
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