"There's Sharples," cried Quilt. "I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. “Oh good. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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