She attacked his hair resolutely. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. But this was a vicomte’s sister. Even as a child she observed how men were haunted 18 by the presence of her mother. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. 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. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered. I don’t know if I express myself clearly.
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