It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. He had taken it back. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. “I mean REALLY independent. 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. Trenchard glanced at the document. Wood. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. “I can only repeat what I said before,” she declared.
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