They walked in silence. 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. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper.
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