I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. Shoplatch. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. 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 don’t you?” “Well, it might mean rather a row. I’ve got to run to get to my Study Hall. “Married already,” he said, with his mouth full. " "Why not?" "I am a thief, a hunted man.
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