In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. Lost me place, that’s all. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. 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. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her.
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