" "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 see,” she said, very gently, “I AM going. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow.
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