It was decrepit and too large. Then she was out of the door and running, fast. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. 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. I watched you wait at the farmhouse! But I couldn’t compromise your safety! You must have realized that!” She lowered her voice to a loud whisper. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. “Why?” “I still love you. ‘Here we go again.
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