It filled her with indefinable fear. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. “If you cannot listen to me now it must remain undelivered. " "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. Poe is all right, if you don't mind nightmares. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat.
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