Wood. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. The bridge was open. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. "It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. 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. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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