William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well. I don’t care. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. John, I have something to say to you. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. Let me engage myself. Maggot, drawing up her fine figure to its full height; "because I condescend to live with you, am I never to look at another man,— especially at one so much to my taste as this? Don't think it!" "You had better retire, Madam," said the woollen-draper, sharply, "if you can't conduct yourself with more propriety.
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