Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. But Jack did not heed them. That’s what I mean. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. 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. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono.
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