Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. I acted in plays, I studied philosophy, mathematics, and science. ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. Forgive me. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once.
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