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She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. 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 was one of the few. “Of course!” he said. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast.
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