works. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. 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. And he unsheathed his sword. “I made two fruit pies and now I have no one to eat them. So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life. "As like as life. Send for Mr. Love and companionship. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain.
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