You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. 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. "Like master like man," observed Jack as he rolled the inanimate body to the side of the road. " "Rely on me," rejoined the executioner, throwing away his pipe, which was just finished. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters.
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