A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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