I guess we could go for a ride. She was caught by an uncle, whose opinion she valued, making faces at Roddy because he had exulted at this. “I haven’t seen the new Patience, dear,” she said. And she would have to go tomorrow. 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 could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps.
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