“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. He drew her to him and tipped her chin towards him. 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. I have never spoken of these things to any human being. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face.
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