"Come along, Blueskin. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. 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. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. Two persons possessing a more comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself.
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