Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. 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. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. Wood, at Dollis Hill —" "Let me have one," said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment,—"Mr.
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