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. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. He drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, terrified by the utter fallowness of his mind. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers. It was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground.
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