” She laughed. 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 looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. His eyes never left her face.
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