You make a game with me, imbecile. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. 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. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. "Swear that you will do this," she cried.
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