Mrs. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. When he awoke it was late in the day, and raining heavily. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. 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. But he is kind of cute. You've nothing to do but to take possession.
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