But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. ” “Then he—and Paris—lied,” Ennison answered. Could it be him you mean?" "No. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. ” Pause. When he returned, it was always the same. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "See her I will. 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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