He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. ‘I am not a fool. 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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