“Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Have you ever tried to run and jump in petticoats, Mr. 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.
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