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. ” She looked at her toes. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand.
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