Sheppard!" sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—"Poor Mrs. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. A doubt as to your dinner to-morrow would make you miserable to-night. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood.
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