“I am bored,” she said abruptly. " "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. Presently. He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious.
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