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’ Melusine fought down the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and drew a steadying breath. " "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. Use the gilt, man!" "There's no need of picklock or crow-bar, here, Mr.
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