” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. " "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. ‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. Fiercely defensive, as usual. Gerald’s breath caught.
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