I was worried. Everything was going to hell. 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. Still, there certainly was something in the idea of a treaty. But it was hopelessly hard to put. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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