The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. 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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