Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. His mother's scream seemed again to ring in his ears, and he was so deeply affected that, fearful of exciting attention, he was about to quit the sacred edifice, when he was stopped by the entrance of Thames, who looked pale as death, with Winifred leaning on his arm. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. " "I don't require it," returned Sheppard.
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