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. He was snoring stupidly. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Well, that’s the situation. . With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. ’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye. It's sixteen days down, with The Tigress.
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