‘Good. 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. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us.
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