There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. 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 was furiously angry. His glance came up again and met hers. You know the sort of thing. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother.
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