"One-and-twenty, ah!" repeated Gay. 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. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs.
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