“Look round the table,” she said. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. F. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. 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 man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. Instead of which they walked sharply. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door.
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