Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. 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. ” There was a shout of laughter. Most of them didn’t, anyhow.
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