He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. 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. “Ohmigod, Katy, you fucking killed her!” A trio of girls sniggered. "Bring him out, Quilt.
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