As they followed him down the stone passage, the locks of the gates and gratings yielded, one after the other, with monotonous clanks like thunder. Voices, the restless murmur of prisoners in captivity, drifted from behind the iron bars of the wards that led off the passage, and through these bars Penelope glimpsed forms moving back and forth. Soon they came to the felons’ quadrangle, where they found Lewis Durant pacing the yard under a gray sky. Other prisoners conversed and laughed with a potman selling beer through the grating, but Lewis, staring at the paving stones under his feet, did not at first notice the turnkey, who jerked a thumb in his direction. Thus, it happened that Penelope got a good look at her brother before he observed her presence. She saw at once that the christening register at St. Marylebone church had not lied. The resemblance to her father was too marked: the same curly, black hair; pronounced brow; long nose; and lean cheeks. Lewis Durant was tall and slender, thin really, as if he hadn’t eaten a good meal in weeks.
