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. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. It was so easy to forget the imminent threats of being discovered during times of peace. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it.
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