CHAPTER XIV. " "That reminds me he's still at large," returned Ireton. " "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 hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. But she threw a verbal bombshell into the spinsters' camp. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super.
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