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. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. " "And me," insinuated Mrs. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple.
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