" "I don't understand you," replied Kneebone, in some confusion. 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. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. "It is too late.
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