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’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. " "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.
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