"Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance with your wishes. “But you’re wrong. That is what I must do. ” “Why do you think so?” she asked. 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. One she entered and met with a sharp rebuff, which she appeared to receive unmoved. The crash was tremendous. I want to know—just as much as I can. It is no crime, none at all. I miss them so.
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