Fell to sin, did Martha. " "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. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. Oh, you must believe me. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me.
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