“No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. " Still the voice was without emotion; calm, colourless. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. 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. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed.
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