Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. 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 MUST speak to you,” he said.
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