"You will find me tractable enough; and, with me by, your side you need fear neither constable nor watchman. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. He rather liked the "sir"; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. The reply he received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment. 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. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. Someone was coming out of the house. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice.
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