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The simile started a laugh in his throat. It isn’t illusions—for us. 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. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. Perhaps it was loneliness. . ’ ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently.
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