47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. We’re regarded as inflammable litter that mustn’t be left about. Loving was better than that. " "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. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness.
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