An iron fillet secured the socket of the bolt and the box of the lock to the main post of the doorway. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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