’ She eyed him, all her uncertainty surfacing. He unhooked it from the front clasp. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. He's a nice boy, a good student. But, feeling secure of vengeance, he determined to abide his time. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. 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. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. " Darrell returned no answer.
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