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. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn.
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