" "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. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. ‘You are not at all stupid. ‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit. “I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world.
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