"Are you not that man's mistress?" demanded Mrs. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. 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. “You are late,” she murmured.
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