There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. 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. “Not at all. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. God is a jealous God, and He turned upon me relentlessly. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. "Do you think we are to be disturbed in this way? Make less noise, hussies, or I'll turn you out of the Lodge. ” CONTENTS ANN VERONICA CHAPTER THE FIRST CHAPTER THE SECOND CHAPTER THE THIRD CHAPTER THE FOURTH CHAPTER THE FIFTH CHAPTER THE SIXTH CHAPTER THE SEVENTH CHAPTER THE EIGHTH CHAPTER THE NINTH CHAPTER THE TENTH CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER THE TWELFTH CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH ANN VERONICA CHAPTER THE FIRST ANN VERONICA TALKS TO HER FATHER Part 1 One Wednesday afternoon in late September, Ann Veronica Stanley came down from London in a state of solemn excitement and quite resolved to have things out with her father that very evening. 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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