" "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. “Please forgive me, Lucy. He drifted in and out of consciousness. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink.
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