But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. He had buckled on his hanger, and had two brace of pistols in his belt, as well as others in this holsters. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. He was like a man beside himself. "This is your work," said the knight, sternly.
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