I came to the Beck’s house. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. 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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