"I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins. 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. They seed beyond all reason. Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London.
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