She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. 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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