“For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. 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. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. But the survey was satisfactory, and she found herself presently in Room No. “Violence won’t do it,” said Ann Veronica. “I’m sorry. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly.
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