There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. Besides, it was under false pretences. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. Hurry to me, I entreat you. 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. And they pay her. "She has, she has," said Jack, in a broken voice.
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