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. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang. While this was passing, Jonathan had ridden back to Marvel to tell him that all was ready, and to give him his last instructions. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. Kneebone, he took his departure.
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