"Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing. ’ ‘With ease, mademoiselle,’ he countered, catching her blade. " "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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