Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. They are not your flowers.
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