The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. "So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a sinister smile; "it is generally admired; and, sometimes by parties who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,—ha! ha! This skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of just now. “Reuben, come here. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds.
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