“Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. 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. “Is it your maid?” he asked. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. He rested on one elbow.
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