See paragraph 1. " "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. “Not at all. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. Of course, it was ridiculous, this inclination to assist the fugitive, based as it was upon an intangible university idea.
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