" "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. She had come to the end of her resources. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. He heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the floor.
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