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I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. I can’t help it. 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 was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. First period was the time to be without her, as she was consumed with some before-school activity as Lucy barely made it to her first class in time for the bell. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
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