" "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 couldn’t sit down for a week!” “Oh, how terrible for you. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. So kind, so good to me always. Over here men drink because they are lonely; and when they drink too hard and too long, they wind up on the beach.
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