"At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation. I rarely set foot in London these days. "The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance—for her sake. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. Because I’m younger than you. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. 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 was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed.
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