" Spurlock obeyed mechanically. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. I told her I was sick today and she told me to get over myself. Until then we mean to keep on hammering away. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. 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.
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