She sighed with
relief. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous
dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was
not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few
minutes gone. Ah! she looks this way, and puts her finger to her lips. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the
gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an
overwrought sort of way. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. "
"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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This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 06-07-2024 22:14:39