" "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’s John. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. You won't mind if I empty this gin?" "No. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. " The stranger smiled incredulously. "Yes—what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her. She slipped it calmly into her pocket.
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