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His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. 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. “It is a pity that as nations we are not more friendly. Anna hailed a bus. ” Lucy commented as the mud was smoothed around the grave site. ‘My God!’ he said, ‘I’ll go after them and kill him.
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