“And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense. There is the key. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. ’ Hilary’s jaw dropped open, and he stood stupidly staring, the nun’s clothing dangling from his hand. ’ ‘In a way she had been,’ said Prudence. “Round midnight, I think.
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