"They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. "Don't touch me. You DO understand?” “Who cares for most people?” she said, not looking at him. 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. "Water!" he gasped. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. She is my only family.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDEzLjU5LjkyLjIzNCAtIDA5LTA2LTIwMjQgMjA6NDU6MjggLSAyMTE5Nzg3NjMx
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