It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. 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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