On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. 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. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence. Lucy stepped inside.
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