Both started. 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. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. “You certainly are. I will go to-night. We think if we just defy the friends we have and go out into the world everything will become easy and splendid. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner.
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