He was caked with dried muck. She came with such force that she feared he might be pushed out from 193 the contractions, which did not happen. 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. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. “He is not—I don’t like him. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not.
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