9. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ‘Gone!’ he said. ‘What a fate he finds for me. ” “I’m sorry. “You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said.
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