” “You’re lucky to live in an age when you can do so. “Well?” he asked her tersely. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. She pointed. 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. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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