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. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. ” “I met you accidentally,” he reminded her. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. "Then, the story of his death was false. "Something more than whisky did that. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. " And running on in this way, he carefully concealed the tools. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. "Take my life, if you're so disposed. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort.
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