She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. 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. I'll stamp twice when we've done. They were filthy after the burial.
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