He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness. John picked it up and put it in her hands. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. 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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