"But never mind who, or what I am. It ought not to be much. Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. 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. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. “I have found out at last what a useless person I am —from a utilitarian point of view. At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel.
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