She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. You cannot—shall not retreat. There's not his peer among the peerage. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life.
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