“I wrote it for you. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. 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. Wood chanced to be murdered by Blueskin, the fellow who just left the room, on the very night of his return, as it has thrown the house into such confusion, and so distracted them, that he has had no time as yet for hostile movements. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. “What a little brick!” he murmured.
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