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. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. . “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river.
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