He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Stir a foot, and I strike. ’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. 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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