" "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. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. That is the dreadful truth.
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