He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. 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. CHAPTER XIX. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. " "That's my own concern," rejoined Sheppard.
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