" "I'll bet she still smells to heaven with sour coconut. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. "It would avail him little if he did," replied Kneebone. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. 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. Another labyrinth in hell!" A smile broke over the trader's face.
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