Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. " "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. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks.
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