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. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. ‘What the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow.
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