Her disapproval was obvious enough. Jack's recapture was speedily made known to all the officers of the jail, and the Lodge was instantly crowded. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. “I confess it. 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.
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