Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. “So how about this Friday?” He asked. 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. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him.
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