"We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. 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. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. Without the inclosure were reared several lofty gibbets, with their ghastly burthens. Ruth could not very well object, since an air of distinction would go with Taber.
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