The ring's yours, and you're mine. " "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. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband.
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