” His eyes were closed. My mother really wants to meet you. 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. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. "I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove. "If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the fellow's stupidity.
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