She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. She struggled not to be afraid. 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 will spare the officers a labour then," rejoined Jonathan. "Mutual concessions," she added. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. It was hard to gain weight when you hated to eat. She lied. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly.
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