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. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. They talked of a new substitute for dripping in vegetarian cookery that Mrs. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. And in its way it was very well. Well, I don't blame you on that ground.
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