You know you don’t mean it. Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. 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. " He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be.
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