“Eight, Cavendish Square. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. 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 sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. As you know my seed is infertile with all women, they are no more than cattle, but it was not so with my Rhea. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze.
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