‘Come, cry a truce. I have had no one but for you. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all. "Rot, weren't they?" "No. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Here, turnkey. "I could have given awkward evidence in that case, if I'd been so inclined," said Mrs. 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.
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