“No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. 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. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. “We must go. Oh, you must believe me. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. Your glove will suffice. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. " "Pray, let me have a pinch!" said Edgeworth Bess, with a captivating glance. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. She was chic, distinguished, unusual.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 25-09-2024 22:44:32