The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces. 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. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. “Oh, damn!” he said. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary. Her unnatural calm was giving way.
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