5. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. Your sister! Great God, how like she is to what you were!” Annabel looked around her nervously. 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. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney. “I suppose I fell in love with her, Ann Veronica.
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