She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. “Useless—worse than useless. Gold-handled, too. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. Besides this, the door was crossed and recrossed by iron bars, clenched by broad-headed nails. 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. “Please have a seat. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. "I did see them on the platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress.
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