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. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. ” “Well,” Mrs. 1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License. Sheppard, faintly.
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