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. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped.
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