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Then he had gone away. Our land brings us in nothing. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. " "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. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. ’ Hilary exploded. I meant mischief. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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