To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty. 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. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. I was his wife. The flush deck was without wells. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical.
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