" "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. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. New customs have prevailed over the old. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality.
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