He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. " "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 cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself.
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