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. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. "He lives at Dollis Hill, a beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from town, where he has taken a farm. If you don’t eat humble-pie now you may live to fare worse later. Quick! Quick!" The order was only just given in time. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. " "First, let me introduce my friends," returned Jack, stepping to the door.
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