" "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. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. Does that boy live in some sort of personal cave? Like, I think he might even be thinking about asking you out again! That is what I think.
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