‘Well, this maid,’ went on Kimble eagerly, ‘and me, we gets to talking, see, and that’s how I knew he were off to this party. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered.
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