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. There would be no way of keeping her police questioning a secret from the entire neighborhood. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. ” He put his head on one side, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and looked at her over his glasses. There it is. She still could not muster the strength to leave. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. ‘I do not know of whom you speak. “You’re an idiot and your attitude is repugnant. “I do,” he answered.
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