Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. I suspect he has a bit of vanity.
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