‘But you know everything now,’ protested Hilary, keeping pace as Gerald took the stairs two at a time. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. 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. “No! My father.
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