Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. 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. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination.
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