" "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. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. He felt the first sting of the whip. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. " "'Zounds! Captain, I shall get my death of cold.
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