” He paused. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. " "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. Turning to Melusine, he grabbed both her wrists and held her away from him, as if afraid that she might go for him. An old man and a young girl, the one as stubbornly offensive as the other.
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