“It is a secret mission,” she declared. Neither the manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies. After all, Hilary must be near returned by now. Give him this letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of time. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. 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. You’d think with as much dick as she gets that she’d cheer up. Sometimes I think you would have been much better off if you had been born in death-worshipping Egypt instead of in the Fourteenth Century. .
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