At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. Footman or some such. 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. Marina gently passed the swaddled infant to his mother, who sat down on the bed proudly to nurse the baby, extracting a fat breast from her heavy gown. She disengaged her hands and stood up. “You are the type that I want to marry someday, you’ve got a beautiful body, such pretty eyes.
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