There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything. But they did what they could for her. Of course, it was ridiculous, this inclination to assist the fugitive, based as it was upon an intangible university idea. 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. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. The action did not pass unnoticed by Sheppard.
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