She had warned him. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people. “One has to live and learn,” she remarked, with a passable imitation of her father’s manner. 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. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door. He sat down. The thought of beauty became an obsession.
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