She said that in the note. Pretty good stuff, some of it. " "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. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle.
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