To-morrow at twelve I'll be with you, Mr. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. 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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