The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. Well, it had to happen somewhen. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. 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 rapped again, louder.
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