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. "The worst of folly," replied Blueskin, returning to the table, and taking up a glass; "and, to put an end to it, I shall drink the health of Jack Sheppard, the housebreaker, and success to him in all his enterprises. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Everything is being done that can be. Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching upon the floor. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered.
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