‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed. 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. ‘Give me an opportunity to open my mouth, and I will. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward.
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