Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. Let’s go up to my room. 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. " "I forgot to mention there's a trifling reward for his capture," cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth.
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