"Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. She had better escape if she can. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. It’s gone. 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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