Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ’ ‘Why should Gérard care?’ sneered Gosse.
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