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" "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. You care for me just a little, I know. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he. Mom, this is Lucy Albert from school. Challenge accepted. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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