Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. Manning, in his entirely different dialect, indorsed her brother Roddy’s view of things. His eyes were red.
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