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. Folks don’t like ’em. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind.
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