"You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder. 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. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. "Why it is astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case.
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