Pray, walk in. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. She may have any number of wasting diseases, but they cannot survive in our bodies. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit.
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