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. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. ” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging.
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