CHAPTER XII. ‘Martha was my wet-nurse? But she is unmarried. Go to her and tell her. . . I asked her to marry me, and she consented. She kissed him on the bridge of his nose. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. 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. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly.
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