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. Holding a link into the place, which had the appearance of a deep pit, Blueskin noticed a body richly dressed. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so frequently exercise over—we can scarcely, in this case, say—their lords and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the will of the husband, but even to his inclinations. At this moment, Blueskin came up, and kept off the officers with his knife. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it.
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