The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast. “John, don’t!” she cried. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. . 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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