‘Not yet, madame. 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. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The young man looked at her.
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