The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. A cool gray light illuminated small portions of the stone floor. “I’ll bring it to-morrow. Mother and Son. Sheppard!" sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—"Poor Mrs. Enschede, to have starved his heart as well as Ruth's because, having laid a curse, he knew not how to turn aside from it! How easily he might have forgotten the unworthy mother in the love of the child! And this day to hear her voice lifted in a quality of anathema. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then.
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