"I am no murderer," replied Sheppard. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. "The poor young man!" she said. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress.
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