Lord, I am sixty. The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. On the contrary. 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. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence.
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