"Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. F. My people don’t know what to do. 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 had very frizzy hair indeed, very black eyebrows, a profusion of metallic adornments about her neck and waist, and an engaging smile. It’s just because all that side of your life hasn’t fairly begun.
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