She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. 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. Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. After a little further discourse the old man took his departure.
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