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. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. You’re all such good cooks.
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