I want you. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. 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. "But, though the storm has spared him, I will not.
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