" "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. "I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. He then made a sort of running noose, passed it over her body, and taking firmly hold of the bars, prepared to guide her descent. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. She is more dear to me than anything else. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century.
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