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. No, this was imbecile. Mr. We shall be torn in pieces if we are discovered. ” But after that neither ideas nor phrases had come and she had fallen thinking of the events of the day. ” She took his hand and smiled upon him. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. .
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