I felt somehow I’d hurt you. She hesitated. My very sentences stumble and give way. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. I mean my cut-offs and boots. Who is the beautiful intruder? And why does she disguise herself as a nun? Why is she involved in an enterprise both foolhardy and dangerous? The girl’s accent suggests an émigré but Mademoiselle insists she is English. Someone ought to be with him until the doctor arrives. 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. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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