” 243 She felt a mixture of embarrassment, humiliation, and pride well up in her cheeks, flushing them. “Child!” he cried. "Not proud in the least, I declare. " "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 bestowed a dazzling smile on Roding, who had reddened to the gills at these words. Wood.
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