Mr. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. "Certain. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. 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. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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