McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. But if God is kind to me, someday I may climb up to where you are. I don’t idealize you. The woman shrugged her shoulders. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. 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.
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