" "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. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. ” “It isn’t,” said Mr.
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