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Your servant, Mr. 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. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. God, Lucy, that’s the stuff people wear to Phys. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me.
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