” “Where is your husband?” Anna asked. She rode him gently. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks.
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