. " "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. Groups of boys took to ogling her as she walked frenetically from class to class. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting.
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