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. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. .
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