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. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. “My charm of manner, I suppose. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year.
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