"Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. ” “In Paris, I think,” Ennison answered. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. 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.
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