The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. It was
obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. 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. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he
reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. "It seems like six long
months to me.
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This video was uploaded to golfrealestateonline.com on 07-07-2024 15:11:57