Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. Stanley. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie. . 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. Which is also puzzling. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that.
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