He was silent. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. 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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