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. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary.
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