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. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. I was a novelty. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. “No, stay, Lucy. Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table.
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