“I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. 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. He has hanged twelve of his associates already. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. ‘Therefore she cannot be the daughter of Suzanne Valade. I don’t quite know why.
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