Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. His tone was kind and sympathetic. "I'm not worth it. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. Let me walk you to the door. 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. “It is a secret mission,” she declared. Wood's.
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