They were both dressed in every respect alike. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. " "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. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. Earles attended her obsequiously to the door.
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