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. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. Burn your palette and your easel. You shall hear from me to-morrow. .
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