Mr.Jope started forward and leaned out of the window.
"I think," said the Rev.

Mr.Whitmore, "we have arrived at the toll-gate." "D'ye mean to say the sharks want to take toll on Bill ?" "Likely enough." "On Bill?
And him a-going to his long home?
Here--hold hard!" Mr.Jope leapt out into the roadway and disappeared.
Upon us two, left alone in the coach, there fell a dreadful silence.
Mr.Whitmore leaned forward and touched my knee; and I met his eye.
The face I looked into was thin and refined; clean-shaven and a trifle pale as if with the habit of study.

A slight baldness by the temples gave the brow unusual height.

His eyes I did not like at all: instead of soothing the terror in mine they seemed to be drinking it in and tasting it and calculating.
"I passed by the Barbican just now," said he; "and heard some inquiries about a small chimney-sweep." He paused, as if waiting.

But I had no speech in me.
"It was a very strange story they were telling--a very dreadful and strange story: still when I came upon you I saw, of course, it was incredible.