“If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. " "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. She continued to fan herself. She was reasonably certain why. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. At last his voice came to release her tension.
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