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 don’t understand. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.
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