The Well Hole 336 XIII. " "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 reached for the door handle. The chair, meanwhile, with its unhappy load, was transported at a brisk pace to Newgate. They’ll know.
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