Her answer was not quite ready. Her head ached with a hollow pain. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe. “There is a secret. 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. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "No matter.
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