"That's usual. 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. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. ’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. ” Anna shrugged her shoulders lightly.
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