“We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. 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. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. Kneebone's special consumption, she added a few impromptu dishes, tossed off in her best style; such as lamb chops, broiled kidneys, fried ham and eggs, and toasted cheese. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world.
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