It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. 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. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. “Some afternoon. E. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. He took her to Burger King, still amused by her taste in food.
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