"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. “Tut, tut!” he said. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. 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. "Amazement!" cried Wild.
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