Capes. 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. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. His name is John. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. “Please don’t be sad. ‘Alors, I see how is this.
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