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. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. But this plan (probably from its danger) was instantly abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation had been taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their efforts at this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles.
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