The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. ‘It is what my father intended. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way.
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