“It’s the centre of the intellectuals. Kneebone nodded. You are NOT going to that ball!” Ann Veronica tried a less genial, more dignified note. “I don’t know. 230 Rhea sprang, teeth flashing. . “It rained the whole of the time, but we saw all the sights, and the place never seemed dull. The man lingered. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. 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.
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