"It is," replied Sheppard. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Her pa was only the smithy. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself.
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