O'Higgins wandered into this street and that, studying the signs and resenting the Britisher's wariness in using too much tin and paint. And grasping the thick iron rod, she pushed with all her force against it, while Jack seconded her efforts from within. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. " "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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