" "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. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. I'm sorry. Ah Cum patrolled the length of the boat innumerable times, but never letting his glance stray far from the gangplank. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. ‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain.
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