You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. His heart hammered in his chest. ‘But you are idiot. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me.
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