" "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. In the first place, it will be damnably dull. ‘It does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig. Then instinct took over. The key's in the lock, on the inner side.
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