A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. 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. "And now to dispose of our dead. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice.
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