" "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. ’ Gerald reached out and took her hand, enclosing it between both his own. Do not believe it, Madam. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day.
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