"My portrait!" echoed Jack. 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. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. It was red and chapped. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion.
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