He was snoring stupidly. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. She felt herself getting into a corner. She leaned a little towards him. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads. Jolly hard life for a girl, getting a living. 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 pawed at him, her hunger for his body making her dizzy with anticipation. But Blueskin was not to be silenced.
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