Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. “I say, Vee. 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. He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister.
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