The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch. 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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