She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. 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. "Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it.
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