Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. There is a tragedy to come. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. The stoppage had materially lessened the distance between him and his pursuers, who now amounted to more than a hundred persons, many of whom carried lanterns and links. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips.
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