But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. " "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. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult.
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