"We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. It was now a quarter past twelve. You're a friend of the young man?" "If you mean did I know him before he became ill, no. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. 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. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd.
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