She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. Let me go, Sir. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. 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. "I was going to die, Hoddy!" she whispered. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.
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