" "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. Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green. "It's a mysterious transaction altogether. . ” “I can spare it,” Anna answered suavely.
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