“To tell you the truth, I am a little dull. " "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. She forced herself not to think of John. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips.
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