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. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. Here you only waste your time. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that.
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