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. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. ’ She shrugged fatalistically. The poor fellow's half smothered. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. Lucy wore it every day from then on.
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