It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. I don’t quite know why. 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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