She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on.
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