A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. 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. " "Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray don't.
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