“I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. 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. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. It’s kind of the World War II thing.
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