" "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. “Hold on, she’s right here. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica.
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