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 mean Miss Charvill no harm. No tricks would serve. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Between the two officers, with their arms linked in his, Jack Sheppard was conducted to the cart. "I thought as much," continued Jonathan. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection.
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