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. “How do you feel?” she asked. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. "I have killed her," cried Jack.
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