She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. . 1. I don’t think you understand. 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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