’ Melusine bubbled over and warmth rose in Gerald’s chest. Heard voices. 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. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. At last—I told a story. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey.
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