He sent me home. ‘Possibly,’ he said. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the
neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the
Diedermayer house. 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. He never retires to rest
till daybreak—if at all. ‘C’est à dire, I would say from my father only comes the
English.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 26-06-2024 22:10:37