E. ” “Who are you?” “I am a friend of Miss Pellissier’s,” Courtlaw answered. The boy was coming around. 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. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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