“No, I am alone,” she answered. "Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. All in a moment. If he did resemble me, I shouldn't care about him.
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