You can trust me, Anna. I tried. I went to her rooms to-night. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. She hit the villain with it. 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. It was a letter. And then—this sudden thrust. “It is against my husband’s orders, and I am not sure that my sister will be particularly glad to see me.
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