"All's over," muttered Jonathan. 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. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. His tone was rough, almost threatening. He refused.
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