Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. " "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. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. "My friend here," said McClintock, "tells me you are looking for a job.
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