\" She opened the front door with her keys, stepping inside. 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. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. He had no wish to go foraging in Spurlock's trunk. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes.
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