” “But I AM anxious,” said Mr. " "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. Oh, you cannot escape from it. . He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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