But it is my fault. Michelle walked towards the sloping Victorian stairs. 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. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. ’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate.
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