You must forgive the poet’s license I take. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. 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 I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. As if we didn’t know! The practical trouble is our ages. "I can't say I do," replied Wood.
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