Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. What his head conceived his hand executed. They trudged along a little hungry, because of the fruitarian refreshments, and mentally very active. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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