The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. 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. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild. ‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come.
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