By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. "I see," rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed in the hands of the picture. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. So let me assure you now that we are not accusing you of a crime.
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