He is a knight. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. 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. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. CHAPTER IV The tourists returned to the Sha-mien at four o'clock. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. The lady, who was indeed stunning, Gerald suddenly realised, said never a word. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. She passed people in the streets and regarded them with a quickening apprehension, once or twice came girls dressed in slatternly finery, going toward Regent Street from out these places. Please yourself. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. Jack, who had been lingering near the group, now walked on. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household.
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