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. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. His hands came up, his face broke apart.
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