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. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. ‘But a spy I am not.
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