It was now a quarter past twelve. “Lord!” she said. 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 have a letter for you, and no end of messages. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. "I assure you, Sir, when I left him an hour ago, it was locked.
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