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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. ” They eyed her incredulously. He shook his head all the time. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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