She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. 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. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. “Come on in, Michelle. “John,” she declared, “I must eat or die. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. I overheard what Mr. Wood will be here presently.
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