“Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink. 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.
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