“It is your sister and her husband,” he said. " "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. “Are you a special sort of clergyman,” she said, after a pause, and looking down her nose at him, “or do you go to the Universities?” “Oh!” he said, profoundly. ” She looked at him; his face, downcast and in profile, was handsome and strong. It has been proved. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse.
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