They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. 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. He was completely, devastatingly handsome. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation.
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