Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way to a passionate flood of tears; "were it not for my child, I should wish to be in the place of that unfortunate lady. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. Kneebone assures me he didn't receive them, I can't do otherwise than believe you. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. A town called Foster. Ah Coom.
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