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Why do you not go away?’ ‘Yes, do go away,’ begged Gerald. " "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. The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time.
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