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. “Ann Veronica has never looked quite so well, I think,” said Capes, clinging, because of a preconceived plan, to the suppressed topic. I don’t think for a moment that he would recognize you. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace.
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