For all that, it is folly. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. 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. Ramage,” she said, “please don’t talk like this.
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