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. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress.
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