“How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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