She pointed. ” “You know, Mr. 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. ” She stopped. I put my foot down like—like adamant. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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