But, say we're friends. I had left Paris. 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 looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified.
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This video was uploaded to probiv.club on 05-06-2024 02:42:27
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