" "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. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. Ah, these English! They travelled all over, up and down the world, not to acquire information but rather to leave the impress of their superiority as a race. But why did he turn away? "Wait!" Ruth called to her father. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day.
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