The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. "Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. ’ ‘What, for not wanting to marry you?’ ‘Imbecile.
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