" "I'm a queer girl," she replied with a smile. "Then, the story of his death was false. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. 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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