We all love you dearly. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber. She really must not go to that affair. “You have succeeded a little too well in your personation,” she said bitterly, “to get rid very easily of Mr. He tried to make love to me. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Your father is very angry, and will not have her name mentioned in his hearing. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. 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.
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