The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. 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. “I will wait for you on the pavement, if you like,” he said, “but I am going to the ‘Unusual’ with you. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. It was open. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. I cannot turn into a bat.
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