'
Mr Haredale nodded assent, and drawing his niece's arm through his,
and taking one of her hands between his own, passed out straightway;
followed by the locksmith, Mrs Varden, and Dolly--who would scarcely
have presented a sufficient surface for all the hugs and caresses they
bestowed upon her though she had been a dozen Dollys. Edward Chester and
Joe followed.
And did Dolly never once look behind--not once? Was there not one little
fleeting glimpse of the dark eyelash, almost resting on her flushed
cheek, and of the downcast sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought there
was--and he is not likely to have been mistaken; for there were not many
eyes like Dolly's, that's the truth.
The outer room through which they had to pass, was full of men; among
them, Mr Dennis in safe keeping; and there, had been since yesterday,
lying in hiding behind a wooden screen which was now thrown down,
Simon Tappertit, the recreant 'prentice, burnt and bruised, and with a
gun-shot wound in his body; and his legs--his perfect legs, the pride
and glory of his life, the comfort of his existence--crushed into
shapeless ugliness. Wondering no longer at the moans they had heard,
Dolly kept closer to her father, and shuddered at the sight; but neither
bruises, burns, nor gun-shot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered
limbs, sent half so keen a pang to Simon's breast, as Dolly passing out,
with Joe for her preserver.
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