" "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. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. Quilt was not long in following his example. It was dry, as if she had powdered it.
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