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. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. ‘Let go!’ ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Gerald demanded. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. We were only—les autres. “Never heard anything of it. ’ The smile vanished. It was horrible.
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