A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. I would speak with you. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade. Do not believe it, Madam. “You know what? You’re right.
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