A species of vertigo seized him. Martha was quite right. 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. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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