The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. Annabel, I cannot believe it. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. 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. Sheppard's door, they were always sufficiently on the alert to maintain their privileges, and to assist each other against the attacks of their common enemy— the sheriff's officer.
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