“When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. 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. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. It’s—it’s a social difference.
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