" "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. ” He moved himself from the recliner to the couch and patted a cushion. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. “My husband knows all. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. “Flesh and flowers are all alike to me. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary.
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