She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. " "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. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. "You are free," said he, "that grating forms a ladder, by which you may descend in safety.
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