(“No, no. "Now your curiosity's satisfied, child," continued Kneebone, "perhaps, you'll attend to my orders. A true nun. ’ She eyed him. " "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. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him.
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