" "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. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. " "It's a queer girl. You called her a wanton!" "Because I had every reason to believe she was one. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. She was nearly too giddy still to answer him. He could quite understand the daughter of Mr. I know you. "Spare him!" cried Mrs, Sheppard, who fancied she had made some impression on the obdurate breast of the thief-taker,—"spare him! and I will forgive you, will thank you, bless you. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. Tell me.
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