A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. 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 don’t understand. I have always hated it. She was no longer there.
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