From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. In this attempt he was, however, foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously with his heel. She attacked his hair resolutely. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. It was Annabel’s. 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. " "At Tyburn, eh, Mr.
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