Only an undermaid I was then. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. 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. "Shall I shoot him?" "Yes! yes! put it to his ear!" cried Mrs. "I could hang him now if I liked.
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