“Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. 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. Always remember that.
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