You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. 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. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. They had been informally introduced during floor hockey, when Katy had sent a puck flying into Lucy’s face.
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