Sheppard. “I was frightened then,” she declared. “My dear Anna,” he answered. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day.
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