Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. The thought of them distressed her without subtracting at all from the oceans of happiness in which she swam. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. His slightest move caused her infinite pleasure. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success.
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