“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. 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. She could not analyse what was stirring in her: the thought of losing the doll, the dog, and the cat. Too much, perhaps. Have you ever voted, Mr.
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