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 further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently.
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