She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Nor can we. An old woman took her in. He classified her as he seated himself. 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.
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