The man looked hard at him. "Blueskin," said Ireton. 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. "The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance—for her sake. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. Her body went into spasm.
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