And then her pace slackened. “You are mistaken, David. ’ ‘I think you—’ He broke off abruptly, astonished at what he had been about to say. Let me only wear your livery. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. 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. Never had he been so intrigued. A thousand dollars is a lot of money for an author to earn. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away.
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