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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 chamber rang with her shrieks. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Unless he has dealings with the devil, he could never have done this alone. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “these gentlemen are your friends, and therefore they are my friends. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform.
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