“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. I believe so because the 220 stories say his head was cut off by a tribe of witches and yet it still remained alive for many years after his decapitation. “Let’s go. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. 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.
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