At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. You're always complaining that you can't keep anybody more than three months. ’ He frowned again. 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. Detention was merry for the other detainees. Spurling and Marvel rose too. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used. "You who are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears.
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