She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life. 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. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her.
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