A fortnight passed, then a month. 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. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. Hurry. He seemed to know a great deal about life. I can. Most unsatisfactory. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect.
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