‘It were that there major, miss. “Home, of course,” she answered. 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. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more. Just my room. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Borrow.
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