She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. 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 that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. "Will he live?" asked Ruth.
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