The lonely widows of robber barons found him irresistible and he was the guest of many a fine table. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. " "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. “We are clerks in the same bank. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. .
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