She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. “To the best of my belief, I have not a single English acquaintance in the city. 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. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance.
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