’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. There it is. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. 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. “I detest amateurs. She turned off the light and approached the window.
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