She danced with two others. " "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. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. " "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. Her shoulders began to ache. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away.
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