‘This is not a place for a man. You're rich. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. Nicholas is dead. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. She kissed Cathy's soft cheek as she entered the warm kitchen. 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. “Forgive me,” he said.
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