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. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. "There is a man in this room who seeks my life.
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