She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. 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. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. But I’m always trying to make things happen.
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