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. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. ‘Eh bien?’ ‘You are perfectly right, Melusine.
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