A dreamy sense of content crept over him. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. 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. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. Still, I'm glad she didn't accept my invitation to join us. “I was watching you at Morningside Park, dear,” said Miss Miniver. I fight.
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