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Near the body, which, it will be surmised, was that of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were seated, quietly smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the new-comers. 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. Hastening along the passage he came to the sixth door. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. “I can tell you are thinking about it. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. He tells me that you will not even see him.
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