"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. " "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. Stanley. .
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