"That's fine," said O'Higgins. 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. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. After a careful search below, he could detect no trace of Blueskin. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. "Only my darbies," returned Jack, clinking his chains. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand.
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