Now that I recall, it probably wasn’t the best source for engineering plans. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. 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. She was the social leader of Morningside Park, and in her superficial and euphuistic way an extremely kind and pleasant woman. Her unnatural calm was giving way.
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