"When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. 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. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. Lucy grabbed its handle, her broken bones mending inside her causing her to wince in pain. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. " "As for that, I don't say. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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