After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard. “He’s got good taste, you know. "I should be sorry to proceed to extremities," continued Sheppard, again raising the pistol. “I will not have this slavery,” she said. He’ll survive. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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