He returned, sitting on the floor beside the couch adoring her and stroking her bare arms. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. "Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Let’s go up to my room.
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