He said the place had gone to wrack. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. Her eyes flashed. 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. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. We are both graduates of Yale. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
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