He could not doubt it. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. “Annabel;” he moaned. 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.
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