The woman shrugged her shoulders. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. 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.
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