” Mike said as he opened the door. " "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. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt.
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