Give me this picture. " "You may spare me your compassion, friend," observed Thames; "I am falsely detained. You may fall into the hands of your enemy. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. 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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