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I'm his lieutenant,—Lieutenant Blueskin. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. 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. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat.
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