It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. But you had better know the truth to start with. It is useless to talk. Sir John once more looked around him. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica. He seemed to have expected them. Ennison!” He released her. 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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