“Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. “Oh, much better. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. Gashes on his arms were already beginning to heal and disappear. 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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