We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. modern. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. 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 father was right: Ruth must never know. I believe I am getting impudent. Like a petulant child he snapped.
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