He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. " "I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. 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. Think, ma’am. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips.
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