Jonathan Wild. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. This time she was indeed beaten. Please don’t let any one know that. 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. It shall be done as you direct. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change.
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