A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. That is not reasonable. 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. As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be improper to notice it here. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily.
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