“Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. I bound him up good and tight, stuffed his mouth with a length of rope, taped it shut. 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 appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying.
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