The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. They stood back together and stared at it. 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. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. If you can tell me nothing I don’t already know, so be it. Hill.
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