“Well, no,” she answered. He appeared suddenly from the infinite in the neighborhood of the Burlington Arcade, crossing the pavement toward her and with his eyes upon her. 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. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland.
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