" "May be," returned the man gravely. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. 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. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. But that was all over.
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