It was impossible. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. 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 lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. ‘She’s perfectly right. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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