He patted the hand on his sleeve. ” “But how did you tell him? You’ve never told me. 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. Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks.
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