" "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. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. “Anna!” she repeated. Wait a moment. Them young prigs is all alike. “No. He gave her silence in return.
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