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 ought to have gone long ago. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Though," said the thieftaker, with a complacent smile, "all the world seems to tremble at it.
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