Come on. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town. But I've an old friend on the way here, and he knows the game down there. " "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.
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