It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. " The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk.
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