“Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. A fever of shame ran through her being. He died when I was. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose.
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