To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. 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. She could feel teenage girls from all corners of the room tensing, preparing to shriek. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. “Then—then we can talk things out. “Don’t!” she begged. “Mary!” He whispered loudly.
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