If ever I could bring myself to ask you any favour, I would ask you to forget even as I have forgotten. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. “He seems like such a nice boy. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity. His safety must be looked to.
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