Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. 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. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant.
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