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. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. But to England we will go. “Girls of sixteen do not need their own laundry hampers.
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