He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. . ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. Sheppard had been interred. We had no idea.
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