Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. E. 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. So soft. “My dear Miss Pellissier,” he said impressively, “this is an unexpected pleasure. ‘You will not believe any of my very clever lies. ’ The lady looked unexpectedly smug. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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