She must learn wisdom—as God pleases. 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. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. I ought to have gone long ago. . Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. “I wonder if it is. .
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