Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. 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. ’ ‘Truly?’ Melusine said excitedly. ’ ‘Leonardo again,’ Gerald muttered and, to her disappointment, dropped her hand. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. That boy," he added, looking at Thames, "has his eye upon us. " "Company!" echoed Rachel; "at this time of night?" "Company, child," repeated Kneebone. " "Generous girl!" cried Jack from behind the skreen. ’ She shook her head. ’ ‘How can I have more? You have taken my pistol. " "Man!" screamed Mrs.
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