"It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. So that the thought of Ann Veronica up-stairs had been extremely painful for her through all the silent dinner-time that night. “I mean to,” she replied. 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. He was so seldom wrong. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days.
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