“It was the night you left Paris. 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. ’ ‘Eh bien? And so?’ ‘He says as how he’s going to take you with him to France with his new wife. Wood, furiously. . "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me.
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