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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. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. ‘Many things he taught me.
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