She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. " "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. .
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