" "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 must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again. " "None whatever," replied the mob. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. " And, as he spoke, he took up a sheet of paper, and hastily traced a few lines upon it. Wood from pressing his suit long ago.
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