Entranced, he stared at the name. 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. Lucy was silent. Ten days should see you on your feet. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. ” He said wistfully. I’m sorry to disappoint you.
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