"Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. She was the first to hear another car approaching from the street, an odd occurrence in an elementary school lot that had been abandoned for the weekend. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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