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But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. 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. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. You seemed complete—without that. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often. But it doesn’t alter the situation. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. ToC Jonathan Wild, meanwhile, had quitted the house. Apparently he thought it very much worth while. ” “I sent a telegram, aunt,” said Ann Veronica.
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