You are you. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. 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. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it.
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