The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. ‘Then open it quickly. Operations then commenced. Guns were impossible. 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. “There’s endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn’t,” he said. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees.
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