For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. ” She sniffled. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. .
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