’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. 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. Trenchard glanced at the document. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity.
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