He chuckled. I don’t care what divides us. " "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. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. Earles strode into the waiting-room. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt.
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