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. ” “Well”—her breath failed her for a moment. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. ” “That’s a question of detail,” said Ann Veronica. “Why don’t they wait?” he added. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour.
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