"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. She thought of the smiles she would gather when she brought forth his first grandson. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. It was. " "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 would like to talk to you about this—soon. And she is very young, younger than her years. .
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