The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. The Red Room. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here.
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