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'd go for it. And they had an idea of what men were like behind all their nicety. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. My lads," he continued, addressing the partners; "when you've finished this job give that fellow a fresh set of darbies. So I made haste and recovered. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. .
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