Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. The audience clapped more heartily. 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. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. Squire and master. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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