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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. A quarter of an hour passed. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. “Drugs, mainly. One nail drives out another, it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail.
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