“Dear husband,” she murmured. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. A boy can forget his amatory troubles playing baseball; but a girl can't find any particular distraction in doing fancy work. ” He said flatly.
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