She was very pale, but she reminded him more at that minute than at any time of “Alcide” as he had first known her. 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. I have given up painting. “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.
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