"Poor fellow! I'm glad he has escaped. \" He said with a question in his voice, a question that revealed that he was intimidated, and not only that, but he had it bad. 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. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven.
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