In which I steal a time-out

What is the etymology of "stole," I wonder? Does it have anything to do with the verb?

My stole, little thief that it is, has taken me for a joy ride. The kind of joy ride that ends with a white bronco pursued by police and helicopters at 10 mph on a freeway somewhere; the kind of joy ride that ends with a red Chevy Malibu on fire on the side of the road, teenage hoodlums fleeing the scene on foot. Rubberneckers beware!

Lace hubris has done me in. Zipping along (for me, that is) on clue 6, nearly halfway through, I thought about placing a lifeline. Next row, I thought. I'll just count this one and make sure I'm still on track. Maybe I don't need a lifeline at all. Breezily, I began to count the tidy line of purls I had just completed.

And, as I blissfully counted, humming a merry lace-expert sort of tune, the YO stitch at the end of the short row--so in the middle of my circular--surreptitiously hopped off and dropped about 15 rows down. It's hard to tell, because in trying to fix this error, I realized that I can read lace when I'm doing it, I can even fix small errors and tink back successfully, but I can't for the grace of sweet Horus figure out how to repair a line of dropped yarn overs. Just. Can't. Do. It.

I'm off to the yarn store this afternoon to beg help. And perhaps whiskey.