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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. . Her head ached with a hollow pain. You may well say it's impossible! His Majesty's jail of Newgate is admirably guarded, I must say. . . Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. Wood in their favour.
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