But they been good to me, they have, sir. " "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. "I feel like work," he lied. It's two hundred pounds. After all, Hilary must be near returned by now.
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