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. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. But the restraint exercised by her instinctive delicacy was very great; over and above coarse or sexual matters it covered religion and politics and any mention of money matters or crime, and Ann Veronica found herself wondering whether these exclusions represented, after all, anything more than suppressions. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. Leonardo had taught her pretty well everything she could have need to know, when they had talked long at his bedside. “Are you going to the Vorsack’s for dinner tonight?” “Yes, I think I’ll stop by. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair.
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