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 saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. ‘I do not believe you. Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him. Saw the villain through the keyhole. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled.
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