" "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. Of course I knew all about him years ago, and he is exactly like everybody’s description of him. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame.
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