" "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. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. “No. Smith, "upon my conscience.
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