. . On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. 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. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city.
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