"Oh!—to see you thus!" cried Thames, in an agony of affliction. ” “You love—Anna?” she exclaimed. 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 made the pies. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. Annabel turned on the electric light and made her way into the sitting-room. “I said you were”—he shouted—“NOT TO GO!” She made, and overdid, an immense effort to be a princess.
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