CHAPTER XXVIII. Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. He got up. Brown broke the silence. In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. As far as I recollect, there were two. 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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