" "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. . He next searched for his stockings and shoes, and when found, put them on. Wary they might be. Without hindrance—present occupation. And I'll have supper with you.
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