"No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. But in a moment she believed she understood. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. 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. Mr. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. I wanted you to know.
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