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“I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. . 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. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. "You heard me say it! It was inevitable. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party.

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