“Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. B. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. " "No, Sir Rowland. 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. “You wouldn’t. "I am your most unhappy son.
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