’ Gerald tutted. Manning. " "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. The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour.
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