" "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. " "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. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. What isn’t a day-dream is this: that you and I are going to put an end to flummery—and go!” “Go!” said Ann Veronica, clenching her hands. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet.
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