“It—it—must come,” she faltered. 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. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him.
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