" "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. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged.
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