Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. Send for Mr. Sheppard was committed to the earth. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander. It’s all nonsense. I hate this part of the world.
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