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. “I’ve got bad faults. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. He turned. ” She breathed relief. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance.
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