It is not so. "You lie!" Head down, fists doubled, Spurlock rushed: only to be met with a kick which was intended for the groin but which struck the thigh instead. 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. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. “I do mean that,” she declared. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round.
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