Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. 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. ’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison. Mr. He was in the house with his mother.
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