” “They were my posters,” Annabel said. 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. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. All other things were without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young man would have to depend upon her for his life.
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