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. It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy, that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. That is an evil place!” She cried. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. .
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