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. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. Sometimes I try to talk.
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