The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. Now lend me your own hand. 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. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie. .
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