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She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. 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. They’re all wonderful cooks. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before.
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