She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. 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. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. The perfume was the only one she ever used.
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