" "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 spit on your plan,’ Melusine told him furiously. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. . Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. " "Zounds!" cried Marvel, "I—" "Hush!" whispered the tapstress, "or I retract my promise.
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