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. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. The girl in the forward chair raised herself a little, the better to see the gorgeous blue palanquin of the dimly visible bride. Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. “But it is so difficult——” “Not at all,” he answered eagerly.
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