"But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother. I have always loved you. I hope you've enjoyed your health. It is the worst of talk under such social circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said nothing—literally nothing—of the things I had meant to say to you and that were coursing through my head. I’ve thought that out, and you must make up your mind to it. ‘No, for you had your own selfish plans already made, that is now seen. You know I am in love with you. Above her head was an aura of white fire. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. 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. .
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