A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. " "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. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her.
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