‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. “You are quite right, I think. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. 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.
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