"Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. 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. Ennison?” Sir John hesitated. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that.
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