Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. 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. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life.
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