The bus however was full. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. We were only—les autres.
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