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. D'ye hear. I said, ‘It is no use your telling me about this walk and pretend I’ve been told about the ball, because you haven’t. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames.
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