“I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. Such freedoms from such people were not to be endured. I am no one, Gérard. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. 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 love some one else.
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