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She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. “Perhaps. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Besides, I would tear out my tongue rather than let it speak her mother's infamy. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. Sheppard, he turned to quit the churchyard. I saw him ride away with that other fellow. “Mere sensuality.
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