The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. 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. "I did all for the best, as I'll explain. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. "My child!" he groaned faintly.
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