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. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. Marvel.
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