" "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. She flew up from her stool and faced the door. But we waste time. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. His literary instincts began to stir.
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