He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. " "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 may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. She still could not muster the strength to leave. ‘Don’t dare call her that to my face.
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