" "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. Presently, two carriages dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. ‘She hasn’t said so, but I presume Valade had got hold of all the useful papers,’ Gerald went on. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything.
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