The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. " He paused, and not without malice. ’ He screamed at me through the rope and tape, it was no use. " "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. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. . "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly.
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