Through that she had to go. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint.
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