Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. ’ ‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. "I mean to have no one but yourself in it. 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 love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments.
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