" "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. “A nice time of anxiety you’ve given me, young lady,” he said, as he entered the room. “Take her limbs again. The baby did not strike at Sebastian. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist.
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