She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. 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. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. “Just come to that seat now you are here, Miss Stanley, and look down the other path; there’s a vista of just the common sort. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. O'Higgins mounted the stairs, his step extraordinarily light for one so heavy.
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