She turned her head away sharply. 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. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. That, I think, is manifest. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.
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