He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. Her fingers rested upon his. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. ‘For once, you’re talking like a sensible man. ‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it. This isn’t the place. “Lucy Albert, sir. 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.
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