He cannot. "Something's wrong. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. The country was partitioned in a similar manner. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. The hansom drove off. I love you. " "You are very kind, Sir," returned the widow, "but I require no support. ‘Leave it, imbecile. 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. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. Courtlaw stood up.
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