“You do not quite understand,” she said gently. It wasn’t. Await me in the coach. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. The Ragged Edge.
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