" "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. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. A vast indifference settled down upon him. Like the flaws of an old marble.
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