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. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life.
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