The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. ” “Friends!” said her father. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. 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. That is not reasonable. “I do not know you,” she said coldly.
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