Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. This woman, contrary to his custom, he answered. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. I had rather have trouble and hardship like that than be taken care of by others. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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