” “Then perhaps,” she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, “perhaps I really do not care. ‘More nor that. Mischief bubbled up in her. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, pervert?” “Yes sir. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. " "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. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws.
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