" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. C below. It slid off flimsily. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Smith: "ho! ho!" "How condescending!" thought Mrs.
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