Norris. " "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. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London.
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