" "Shall I tell you a real story?" "Something you have seen?" "Yes. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. 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. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it.
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