But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. 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. He nodded. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance.
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