Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. “I don’t know. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. I tell you, that girl would jump into the sea, rather. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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