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. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. Sheppard. “But I’m afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me. It ought never to have begun. . Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard.
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