CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. 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 tried again. Hoddy. Also she made little pussy-like sounds of a reassuring nature. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. The inn was a military haunt.
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