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. Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold, Rattled their chains in that dungeon old; Of all that number there 'scaped not one Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone. “That is where I got confused,” he said. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. She shot a sudden glance at him. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness.
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