“He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. 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. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. But did you ever hear of a djinn in a blue-serge coat? Stitched in!" Something like this was always rushing into his throat; and he had to sink his nails into his palms to stop his mouth. He kissed her cheek. "It has been … rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. "But, let that pass.
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