She was fine and tender. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. 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. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe.
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