Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us.
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