Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. 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. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. on. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. "He knows he had to take it. E. I don’t want a family in the suburbs and Christmases at the Florida house and summers at the Hamptons.
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