"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. "But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn't extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented—so young, too, for such an old offender. 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 went to her own table and sat down. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby.
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