" "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. ” “It ought to make one happy. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition.
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