Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. Even unbelieving biological demonstrators must respect decorum; and besides, you see—you were a student. But he tells them that I am a spy. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. 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.
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