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 lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. She was as fair as the lily of the lotus. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly.
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