"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. ” She came closer. “H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. 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. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. They found a river pool and disrobed together as they had for hundreds of years.
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