She felt that she was not alone. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. Something seemed awry. 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. But it was hopelessly hard to put. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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