Suddenly a half stifled exclamation broke from Anna’s lips. " "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. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger. Come and help me pack. “Yes?” he said.
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