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“I am sick of it. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. 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. “Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you. You don’t deserve it, but he does. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind.
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