" "You might trust me," said Rachel, in an offended tone; "but never mind. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. My politics in that matter wouldn’t be to give women votes. " "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 don't understand you," replied Kneebone, in some confusion. " "Permit me to see it, Sir James!" requested Jack.
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