" "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. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. In the present instance she did not want any interference; she did not want the doctor's wisdom to edge in between these two young fools and spoil the drama. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. Faugh!” She took up the last morsel of roll, and held it delicately between her long slim fingers.
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