‘He don’t mean you no harm. ” Lucy observed, watching her friend. " "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. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Keep up the clamour for five minutes, and I'll finish it. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. Figg?" asked Gay. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave.
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