More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. He never finished his sentence. 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. You’re a lady all right and tight, and nothing anyone does can take that away from you. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. 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. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home. Prudence.
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