"And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. ‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. ‘What is this fate?’ ‘Un mariage of no distinction. 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. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses. He had the air of a man who has said too much.
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