But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. “You are one of the Hampshire Pellissiers, I know, and your family are quite as good as ours. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote 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. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered.
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