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. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. You have been to see your sister, of course. As soon as he could be moved with safety, Jonathan had himself transported to Newgate, where he was carried into the Middle Ward, that he might feast his eyes upon his victim.
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