At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. They set about everyone—everyone. “Let me introduce my friend to you,” Courtlaw said. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. 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. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house.
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