“What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. “I feared we might have a fog. “No, I’d like to. But his grief was of short duration. ‘I do not know. 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. He waited. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality.
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