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. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. “I expected you this morning,” he said. "Try fifty pounds more," said Jonathan. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. There was something in Jonathan's manner, as he issued this command, that struck the man as singular, and he afterwards recalled it.
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