It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. Her little white hand stole across the table. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. 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.
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