‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. 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.
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