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. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. Sometimes I think I’ll miss them and I start to cry, but I’m ready to have a life of my own. Ovarian cancer. He spoke the automatic thought that entered his mind.
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