For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. 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. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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