"Nothing more than this," answered Kneebone,—"that after the failure of his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his seat, Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever since, entirely secluded from the world. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. 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 had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. That is not reasonable.
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