But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. 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. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure.
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