"Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. 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. “Bother it all!” she swore. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat.
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