‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. 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 knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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