“I think they do. ” Lucy blinked from the winter sunlight and reached behind herself to yank at her hood. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. 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. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene.
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