" "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 want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool. Funk! I’ll see it out. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. ‘You put that thing away now, missie. ” “I am going to ask more than a favour,” she said slowly. You never can tell.
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