They don’t count, and I don’t care. 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. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. ’ Gerald could not resist.
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