Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. 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. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. It ought not to be much.
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