" "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. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. “In the event of his death we should require you at once to attend at the inquest.
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