He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. 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. Do not mistake me. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think.
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