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. “I said you were”—he shouted—“NOT TO GO!” She made, and overdid, an immense effort to be a princess. Tears sprang to her eyes. He came to the door and as he opened it a crack, she pushed herself inside urgently. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. The door popped open with a sigh. . “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. “In any case, I decline to see you alone. “Once or twice. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was.
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