"Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. You haven’t had it on your mind all this time?” “I have rather. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. 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. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “Come on in. " "Well, that's a hopeful sign.
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