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. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small.
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