’ ‘The what, miss?’ asked Kimble, frowning. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch.
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