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. Acquainted with every part of the jail, Jack well knew that his only chance of effecting an escape must be by the roof. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. He drew a little breath and stepped back. "No offence," returned Jonathan. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote.
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