She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. Do not believe it, Madam. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. The coconut plantation covered the west side. 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.
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