What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. It is dull—deadly dull. 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. I need not counsel you to avoid those fatal courses which have placed you in such fearful jeopardy. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Hear me, adorable girl! You know not the extent of my devotion. “Please come home. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. I chose you for your strength, your cunning, your intelligence, your great beauty.
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