She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. 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 why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. Vampires are very lonely creatures, John. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. For a time Spurlock did not move.
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