He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place. It was perfectly logical. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. He'll mend, I hope. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. I have unfinished business. She wanted to think. Sheppard. Take it, I tell you. 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.
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