The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. Mrs. “Not a bit of it. 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. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another.
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