Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. 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. Shari proceeded to paint, brush, dust, slather, and blot Lucy’s face with makeup. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged.
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