Manning. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. "Come on, my lads!" vociferated Blueskin, "we'll unkennel the old fox. One might suppose him turning up; he knew a lot of clever people, and some of them might belong to the class. 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. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. "Now, then, Saint Giles!" interposed Sheppard, "are we to be kept here all night?" "Eh day!" exclaimed Sharples: "wot new-fledged bantam's this?" "One that wants to go to roost," replied Sheppard. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day.
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