The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. 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. "I was going to die, Hoddy!" she whispered.
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