But no more of that. 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. ’ ‘Success?’ Her eyes narrowed. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake. Adieu! my charmer. You are infatuated. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. The young ladies in the somewhat mixed society amongst which he moved neither satisfied his taste nor appealed in any way to his affections. ” “And yet,” he murmured, “one of the greatest of our writers has declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex. You cannot depart hence. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations.
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