"There's Sharples," cried Quilt. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. Wood, softening her asperity. 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.
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