The last that is known of Monsieur Charvill is when he departed the Valade estate. There was a black fear in his heart. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. 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. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. The ragged edge. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar.
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