They had heard nothing, seen nothing. "No—Sheppard?" rejoined Wild. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Or perhaps my father once. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. “Let me see,” he said. “I murdered them, John.
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