" "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. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. Gosse sneered.
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