“My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. “It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. The plank hung over his head. You must—you shall be mine.
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