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. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. "I don't believe McClintock would have gone into convulsions at the sight of it. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls.
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