Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. He only laughed his defiance. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. Stanley poured wine. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. For I still love her mother. 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.
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