"Damnation!" cried Kneebone. 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. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot.
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