ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. "See her I will. 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. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. Gerald watched its approach with vague interest, which quickened when he saw that it was drawing up outside the very house out of which he had just stepped. He's worth a dozen of you. I am a physician first, which gives the man in me a secondary part. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. "The gen'l'man'll be here directly. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.
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