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. They had been informally introduced during floor hockey, when Katy had sent a puck flying into Lucy’s face. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. But it is the truth.
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