" The manager began some computations. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. " "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.
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