Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. 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. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. Mr. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled.
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