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. Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring. Hang the wench! Roding was right. It simply doesn’t count. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time.
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