But it's confounded inconvenient. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. 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. The latch had not fully caught. The Oriental accepts my medicines kowtowing, and when my back is turned, chucks the stuff out of the window and burns joss-sticks. The light disappeared.
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