"Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. She’s big, about 5’10”. ‘Aye, that she was. " "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. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Good night.
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