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. “You certainly are. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. That’s as far as we go. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. I asked her to marry me, and she consented.
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