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. Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. " "I will have none till I have forced the villain's name from you!" he cried, stamping the floor with rage. ” “And you?” Annabel exclaimed. “And yet I do it without compunction. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. By this time, Jack's reputation had risen to such a height with the populace,—his exploits having become the universal theme of discourse, that the streets were almost impassable for the crowds collected to obtain a view of him. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes.
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