Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. 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 thrust out a rhetorical hand. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. “Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. "As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. I never want you to be ashamed of me. He looked no longer at his wife.
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