” “I sent a telegram, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. " "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. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. “So you come from Anna, do you?” she remarked.
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