She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. " "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. Last night there had been no time. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. "Hands off!" she exclaimed, "or you'll repent it.
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