The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. But his grief was of short duration. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. 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.
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