The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. It feels like I’ve got a snake of mucus stuffing my entire throat, just one big solid rope. 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. net/1/5/6/1/15614/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Clare Elliott and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
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