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. I have said that I am but a nun now. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. The Ragged Edge. ’ She was too distressed to bear this.
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