” John approached Lucy, handing the bouquet to her. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered.
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