Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. " "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. Old Newgate 302 X. It’s a damned hard thing to do. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy.
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