‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. 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. He, next cautiously tried the door, but found it fastened inside.
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